The Art of Pharmacology
by DogwoodsAndBluebells
Summary: Clint was usually grateful for Natasha's mini-pharmacy, but she was a rather lazy pharmacist and he should have paid more attention to what he was taking. Based on certain recent, real-life events. Rated for language.


Summary: Clint was usually grateful for Natasha's mini-pharmacy, but she was a rather lazy pharmacist and he should have paid more attention to what he was taking. Based on certain recent, real-life events. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

The Art of Pharmacology

Clint let out a groan of satisfaction as he sank into the plane seat. Toeing off his boots, he sighed, shifting slightly to settle more comfortably in the plush leather.

Tony smirked, dropping his coat on the seat across the aisle. "Are you ready to admit that taking my jet to London was a better plan than a Quinjet?"

"I always agreed with you," Clint retorted, pointing a finger at the billionaire for emphasis. "Tash was the one that thought it was a bad idea."

"I thought it was a security risk," she corrected wearily, dropping her purse in the seat across from Clint. "And I still say I was right.""

"Don't be a buzzkill, Red." Tony rolled his eyes, throwing himself into his seat. "We made it through the conference with no trouble, thanks to you two," he nodded with deference at the pair of assassins. "No one would think of trying anything with Deadly and Deadlier as my bodyguards."

Clint had closed his eyes, relishing in the comfort of finally being able to sit, off duty, but he popped one open to peek at Tony. "Which one is which?"

Tony raised a brow at him as Clint squirmed, thanking the stewardess that handed him a glass of scotch. "If I have to tell you, you don't get to know."

Natasha smirked, nudging Clint with her boot. He wrinkled his nose at her in retaliation, and shifted again. She frowned.

"Seriously, you've been fidgeting since you sat down. What is wrong with you?"

"I'm trying to get comfortable enough to sleep," he explained, shooting her a glare. Tony glanced between the two of them as the plane began to taxi down the tarmac.

"Is this normally an issue?"

She sighed, ignoring Clint's pleading look, and answered Tony. "Clint can't sleep on planes."

Tony sipped at his drink, the ice cubes clinking as he shook his hand in question. "So?"

Resigned to explaining the situation to Tony, Clint reclined his seat, propping his feet on the chair across from him. Natasha scowled at his socks and Clint grinned, wiggling his toes tauntingly. Turning back to Tony, he responded, "So, unlike you, I have to deplane at the airport, board a Quinjet, and fly out to Bumfuck, Africa on a mission for Fury. And I'm going to need to sleep beforehand."

Tony frowned. "I thought you retired from SHIELD. That was part of the whole point in you moving out of the helicarrier and into to the mansion."

"We're actually classified as being on inactive duty," Natasha pointed out. "When a mission comes up that only Clint or I could do best, Fury calls in a favor."

Tony's eyes glinted with mischief. "So he owes you how many favors, exactly?"

Clint snorted, clasping his hands over his stomach. "How many do we owe him, more like. Let's face it. Any other organization would have had me court-martialed, locked up, and executed within days."

The atmosphere sobered as the plane gathered speed and lifted off the ground. Breaking the tension, Clint flashed Natasha a look that was equal parts humor and begging. "Got any Ambien?"

Tony watched with mild interest as she started digging through her purse, finally, submerging her arm up to the elbow in the enormous tote that Pepper had insisted she carry. "What are you looking for?"

"It's Tasha's emergency pharmacy," Clint answered, eyes fixated on Natasha's movements. "She's got one of everything in there, just in case."

Natasha crowed triumphantly, finally pulling out a small, silver box. She tossed it at Clint, who caught it with ease. "There's bound to be some in there."

"Thanks," he replied absently, ruffling through the pills. "It's blue, right?"

"I think so."

"Awesome," he muttered, squinting at the small blue pill in his hand. Dropping it back in the box, he plucked another out, popping it into his mouth with finesse. "Twenty minutes, and I'm out like a light."

"If you snore again, I will crush your trachea," Natasha threatened as she handed him her bottle of water. He gave her a cheeky smile, washing the pill down with a long drink. Tony shook his head at the pair and pulled out his notebook to finish the plans for an upgrade to the Quinjets.

* * *

Twenty minutes had passed and Clint was no closer to sleep than he had been when the plane took off. He sat, arms crossed, staring out the window, as his leg jumped ceaselessly.

"Ambien usually puts you out like a light," Natasha commented, flipping carelessly through a magazine as Clint's leg continued to bounce. "Did you take an Adderall instead?

"Adderall is pink," he mumbled, making no effort to still his leg. "This was clearly blue."

She reached into her bag again, frowning. Clint's leg abruptly stopped and she nearly sighed in relief. Glancing up at him, she met his wide, frantic eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, fuck no," he breathed. In a fit of habit, Natasha's eyes swept his body from top to bottom for injuries and fell just below his belt. Unable to help herself, she burst into laughter.

The sound of her mirth echoed like a gunshot in the cabin, and forced Tony's gaze from his work. His attention well and truly caught, he swiveled his head in their direction. "What's happening?"

Clint curled in on himself, turning his back to Tony. "Nothing," he growled over his shoulder. Natasha continued to emit peals of laughter, her whole body shaking. Tony closed his book and stood, intent on finding out what she found so hilarious. He managed one step before Clint furiously unholstered his Glock, aiming at the billionaire. "Not one step."

Tony held his hands up, a gesture of peace. "Jeez, Clint, calm down," he exclaimed, backing up a step. Natasha burst into another fit of giggles, oblivious to Clint's black glare.

"He can't," she finally announced, her laughter subsiding. "He took the wrong little blue pill."

"Fuck you," Clint snarled at her as Tony turned to him with slight confusion that was quickly followed by blatant amusement.

"How in the hell did you take the wrong pill?" Tony tucked one arm beneath the other, biting back a snicker as Clint begrudgingly unfolded, allowing the evidence to be plainly visible. "Aren't there letters stamped on them?"

"It had an A on it," Clint insisted, somewhat petulant.

"Are you sure it wasn't a V?" He glowered at Natasha. "I'm just asking," she defended herself.

Tony let out a bark of laughter. "Hawkeye can't see the difference between an A and a V! Oh, that's great."

"I will kill you in your sleep," Clint ground out through clenched teeth. He turned to his partner. "Why the fuck do you even have those?"

She shrugged, unrepentant. "Some of my marks are older. They need a hand in the bedroom."

Tony smirked wickedly. "What about you, Barton? Do you need a hand?"

"Not yours," Clint hissed, his eyes flinty.

Tony grinned. "Oh, I wasn't offering, princess. But I would like to point out your little problem -,"

"_It is not little_," Clint snapped, nearly rising out of his seat.

Natasha eyed him speculatively. "True."

Clint shot her an inscrutable look. Tony rolled his eyes. "Save it, lovebirds. Clint, you have an issue and a smoking hot partner, no offense, Natasha," he demurred. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. He turned back to Clint. "And the bathrooms are relatively spacious. I do recommend the Mile High Club, for what it's worth."

Clint snorted, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. "Not much, Stark."

Tony placed a hand over his chest. "I'm wounded, Barton. I really am."

"Shut the fuck up," Clint muttered, beginning to wince as he shifted. He looked at Natasha beseechingly. "What about aspirin? That helps this kind of thing, right?"

"There's really only one way to help that kind of thing," Tony murmured beneath his breath.

Clint pointed an angry finger at him. "Seriously, shut up."

"To answer your question," Natasha interrupted what was promising to be a lovely testosterone-filled spat, "no, I do not have any aspirin."

Clint stared at her incredulously. "There is an entire damned pharmacy in that box. How in the name of fuck do you not have any aspirin?"

She raised a brow at him, clearly amused. "If someone is injured on one of my missions, aspirin isn't going to help them any, so there's no point to me keeping a supply, is there?"

Clint sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Tony stood, unapologetic.

"You know there's only one way to solve this," he admonished.

Clint glared balefully at him. "Wait it out?"

"Why must you be difficult?"

Natasha huffed in exasperation. "What if it lasts longer than you think it will?" Both men gaped at her with twin expressions of horror. She raised her eyebrows for emphasis. "Do you want to get on the Quinjet to Africa with that issue?"

"We're flying from London to New York," Tony declared. "At that point, he's got bigger fish to fry."

She nodded. "So." She glanced at Clint. "Do you want to tell Fury why you're in the hospital, or would you prefer Tony tell him?"

Clint stared at her. "You would, wouldn't you?" When she simply returned his gaze, he cringed ever so slightly. "Of course you would."

Coming to a decision, Clint flicked his eyes at Tony. Natasha nodded, nearly imperceptible, and some of the tension leaked from his stance. Standing, Clint headed gingerly to the bathroom and smiled when he heard Tony hit the floor, knocked out cold.

* * *

Wincing at the pounding in his head, Tony carefully picked himself up from the floor of the plane. Putting two and two together, he glared at Natasha. The corners of her lips quirked up and, annoyed, he shifted his gaze to a much more relaxed Clint.

"So," he began, sitting down. "All taken care of?"

Clint lifted his arms, offering an unadulterated view of his lap. "See for yourself."

"I'll take your word for it, princess," Tony retorted. "Was I right about the Mile High Club?"

Clint crossed his arms smugly. "You will never know."

"I was right," Tony concluded. Clint shook his head, smiling at his friend. Natasha ignored the conversation, watching Tony carefully.

"Headache?"

"A bit, yeah," he said, rubbing the lump where his skull had met her elbow and scowling at her.

She smirked, holding out her pill box. "Ibuprofen?"

_Fin._


End file.
